St Barts Rooftop
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John speculates as the fireworks light up the sky and Sherlock, for a moment, is completely and utterly silent. Speculative/Contemplative SomewhatCharacterStudy-ish John. GuyFawkes/Fireworks Day/Bonfire Night!fic. Not meant to be slash, although John thinks the 'l' word in an friendly way.


**St. Barts Rooftop**

John's been waiting, lonely and bored and just the slightest bit chilled, sitting on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

He hadn't wanted to come up here just yet (figured it was too early) but he knew that he had had nothing better to do. So, he had decided to come up early all the same, even though he knew that he could be waiting for a very long time.

John looked up at the darkening sky before risking a glance towards the ground. Heights didn't really have an effect on him, but it was still a bit daunting to look down all those stories. One false step and you would be dead on the pavement not ten seconds later. John shivered before looking back to the sky.

The breeze in the air did nothing to chase the goosebumps away, so he zipped his jacket up and hunched up against the wind. November tended to be chilly, but he hadn't thought to bring a blanket. A sort of picnic huddle session was something that he would do with his girlfriend, if he had actually had one, that was. He didn't.

The staircase door swung open. John looked up, raising his eyebrows a bit in surprise. Sherlock was drawing his scarf tighter as he strode across the rooftop to meet John.

"You came up early," John remarked.

"The specimen won't melt for another half an hour, at least," Sherlock replied, stopping next to John.

John nodded a bit, choosing not to ask what Sherlock was doing down in the morgue this time. Sherlock didn't elaborate and John didn't mind the silence that ensued. The sounds of traffic below, along with the whistling wind, were the only two sounds that met John's ears. It was peaceful. Life was good.

A soft but echoing _boom_ brought John's attention quickly back to the sky. A louder _boom_, closer and more pronounced, was showcased by a flurry of colour- red, green, blue, purple showers of light in the sky. It lasted for a second before fading to smoke before another _boom_, another display of art.

John and Sherlock were silent through the duration of the fireworks. John was marveling at their beauty. He didn't know what Sherlock was marveling at. Maybe he was appreciating the fireworks, too. John didn't know.

He shivered just then, a quick exhale of breath leaving his lips. He felt Sherlock's eyes flicker to him, a reflex, but he didn't look away from the sky.

He did, although, look up at Sherlock's retreating footsteps. He frowned as the black-clad detective ghosted back into the stairwell without a word. Typical... He couldn't even stay still long enough to watch the Fireworks Day spectacular.

John had settled back into the lonely state that sometimes still plagued him, even with Sherlock around, when the stairwell door opened again. And Sherlock was back, offering him a blanket, eyes on the sky once again.

John smiled to himself, accepted, and settled into the newly found warmth as he returned his gaze to the fireworks. He didn't care what they all said- Sherlock Holmes wasn't a freak. Sherlock was just hard to understand. John suspected that even Sherlock didn't understand himself like he should. John loved him for that, that sense of uncertainty that made John think that Sherlock needed protecting- from himself. That was the reason that John stuck around, through all of the stupid stuff, because even if Sherlock couldn't express it, John was fairly sure that Sherlock needed him. And it was nice, very nice, to finally just think that someone needed and wanted him, John Watson.

He noticed the small tremors ripple through Sherlock's body at a particularly nippy gust. Sherlock didn't say a word, honestly didn't seem to notice. John voiced his name, got his attention, offered part of the blanket. Sherlock frowned, shook his head. John gave him _that_ look, the look of _You don't know what you're saying_.

Sherlock sank onto the rooftop, drawing his knees close, allowing John to share the blanket with him. John could feel him shivering. John didn't say a word.

Sherlock was vulnerable, childlike in the extreme. Although he didn't let that side show to the rest of the world unless he wanted something his way, John noticed it. Sherlock was fragile, even if he didn't notice or accept it himself. John found it a bit sad, in a depressing way, and vowed that he wouldn't let anyone hurt Sherlock. Sherlock included.

The night seemed to have lost its usual demanding tenor; the honking of horns and the bustle of passerby and the screeching of tires or the squeal of brakes seemed to have disappeared. It was only the fireworks, and the rooftop, and two friends.

John thought it was nice. He wondered if Sherlock did, too.

The fireworks display didn't last as long as it could have. John loved the quiet, speculative-in-a-calm way Sherlock. There were some moments where Sherlock actually seemed to marvel, to wonder, to appreciate the small things in life. It was nice to have those moments, because usually Sherlock was bustling around with ten things on his mind and ten other experiments at hand.

"Should be thawed now. It's much warmer inside," Sherlock mused, dislodging the blanket and standing. "You can catch a cab without me. I'll still be a while. Don't wait up." Sherlock was back to business, all rapid fire questioning and answering genius at its finest. He strode across the rooftop and opened the door before pausing. He glanced back. "The fireworks were... nice." He nodded, then turned and vanished inside.

John smiled slightly, staying where he was. He ought to go back home, go inside, at least, where it was warmer, but he wanted to bask in the moment for a second longer.

Sherlock wasn't a bad person. He just had a careful mask that he wore, that he wouldn't remove for anyone, anywhere, except for in the privacy of his own flat. And sometimes, not even then. That careful composure, that willingness to play games, to put himself into lines of danger that shouldn't be crossed... It would be _that_ that would be Sherlock's downfall.

John didn't want to think about it, but he knew it was true. One day, Sherlock would get himself into something that would send him careening towards the ground, free-falling for the sake of adventure. It wasn't a question of _how_, so much of a question of _when_.

_Not today_, reminded a little voice in the back of John's head.

And it was right. Not today. For another day, Sherlock was safe.

John smiled and stood, draping the blanket over his arm as he headed back inside.

* * *

**Oh, gosh. I love this. I usually am just like 'Hurrrr' about most of my stuff, or else I just think it's adorable and fluffy. And in this, I (think I) managed a serious tone without being stupidly cliche. Well, okay, still cliche, but. Yeah. I like it.**

**Tried to maintain a system. In the beginning, John's just alone and waiting. And then Sherlock comes along. And for once, Sherlock isn't all his normal, sociopathic self. He's calm and speculative and they're just perfectly content throughout the fireworks show, hence why the writing turns calmer. But when it's over, Sherlock goes back to his normal self, the tone of the writing picks up again, and it's back to normal time. That's what I tried to do.**

**Happy Fourth of July, America. Happy (very) early Fireworks Day, London. Reviews are love.**


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